


The Boy in the Sandpit

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Anderson is a rubbish babysitter, Child Sherlock, Fluff, Kid Sherlock, Only a tiny bit of Mystrade, Teen John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-04
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-07 11:09:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/747844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John picked up strays. He always had done, ever since he picked up an injured dog when he was three years old.</p><p>Still, it was a surprise when his mother returned home from work and found her sixteen-year-old son in the kitchen, making dinner for a little boy of about seven."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Boy in the Sandpit

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, the usual, these characters do not belong to me, I'm just using them for stories.

John picked up strays. He always had done, ever since he picked up an injured dog when he was three years old.

Still, it was a surprise when his mother returned home from work and found her sixteen-year-old son in the kitchen, making dinner for a little boy of about seven.

 

He’d been walking to the shops to get a present for his friend Mike when he saw a child sitting by himself in the sand pit in the park. That wasn’t unusual, exactly, and John probably would have carried on as usual if it weren’t for the fact that the child was speaking out loud to himself.

He paused at the gate.

“You alright over there?” He called over, but the kid just ignored him so he shouted a bit louder, “Hey! Where are your parents?”

The boy rolled his head to look at him, sighed heavily and dragged himself over. John had to stop himself laughing – there was something amusing about someone so young having so much attitude. The kid had a head of wild black curls and very pale eyes that seemed to be staring right into him. 

“My parents? Hmm, judging by the time of day, the fact that they’ve quickly hired a sub-standard babysitter who lets me out of his sight long enough for me to walk to the park, and the clothes I last saw them in, I’d say that a problem arose at work and they had to stay late. A simple deduction… Obviously.”

John blinked, startled at this boy who was around a decade younger than him and already speaking with a far better grasp of the human language.

“Err… Right. So, shouldn’t you be with this sub-standard babysitter?”

“Don’t be silly John, I need to finish my investigation into the origins of the sand in the sandpit.”

“Okay. Of course.” A thought suddenly struck him, “wait, how did you know my name? And what’s yours?”

“I’m Sherlock Holmes,” the boy – Sherlock – announced pompously, “and your label is sticking out of your shirt. Though I probably could have worked it out anyway – an average mind like yours deserves an average name.”

John felt like he should have been offended by that, but he was already strangely fond of little Sherlock Holmes.

“You should go home. Here, I’ll take you,” he said.

Sherlock regarded him carefully.

“Hmmm… No obvious recent wounds or injuries, fairly safe clothes, a desire to enter the Army as a doctor… I’d say you’re not planning to murder me. So yes, I will come with you. Though there really is nothing of interest in my home. They won’t miss me anyway.”

“That might be so, but we still need to get you home. Which way did you come from?”

Sherlock sighed and dragged his feet through the gate and along the road with John.

“You don’t have to come with me, you know. I’m perfectly capable of finding my way home by myself.”

“I’m sure you are. In the meantime, I expect your babysitter won’t be too happy with you running away.”

“Ugh, it’s Anderson though. He doesn’t like me. You know how he is.”

“Know how… What? Are you talking about Anderson in my year at school? How do you know that I know him?”

Sherlock grimaced slightly at John’s overuse of the word ‘know’, but explained.

“You’re evidently sixteen. He is sixteen. You both live in the same small town. You obviously both go to the same school. Anderson’s a bully, you look fairly popular, so you must know of each other at least.”

“Okay, right. So Anderson is your babysitter. I didn’t even know he knew how to deal with kids.”

“John,” Sherlock said sardonically, “you found me sitting in a playground, unsupervised, without anybody even looking for me. Anderson does not know how to deal with children. He’s only babysitting because he lives next door.”

Chuckling, John shook his head and carried on walking beside the small boy. They were approaching the nicest area of town. John had been there before, for parties and things, but he didn’t know it well. Sherlock, however, was drawing back, looking more and more reluctant to walk any further.

“What’s up? Anderson isn’t that bad, you could hold your own over him in any conversation!”

“It’s not that. My brother is home too. With his boyfriend. Greg. They kiss.”

John blinked at him.

“Yes, Sherlock. That’s what couples do. You’ll understand one day.”

“I doubt it,” Sherlock snorted, “I don’t ever want to be in a relationship.”

Trying to hide his surprise, John made a non-committal sound and they carried on walking, finally stopping outside a large mansion house. He whistled quietly at the size of it, but Sherlock just gave him a look and marched up to the door, knocking angrily. Anderson opened it.

“Sherlock. Wait, what are you doing outside? Where did you go?” He squinted down to John, who was standing at the end of the drive, “oi! John! Where did you find him?”

“Playground. Look, mate, you can’t let kids just wander out of the house. Anyone could have picked him up and shoved him in a van.”

“Whatever,” Anderson was already rolling his eyes, “come on, Sherlock. Come back inside you little freak.”

But Sherlock stood stubbornly on the step.

“I’d rather go with John, thanks. He’s been cooking pasta, which is probably burnt by now since he only meant to walk five minutes to the shop, but it’ll be better than anything you make.”

Anderson groaned and pinched the top of his nose.

“Look. Do whatever. I don’t really care. But I think your brother would.” He turned around and shouted back into the house, “MYCROFT. COME DOWN HERE A SECOND.”

A thin, sharp-nosed gingery-haired boy of about John’s age came downstairs with another tanned, dark-haired boy.

“What were you doing up there, kissing?” Asked Sherlock.

Mycroft fixed him with a glare.

“Actually, Sherlock, we were watching a film on the computer. Now stop being a nuisance and come inside,” he spotted John, “or you could go with your friend. Just don’t be a pain.”

Sherlock almost jumped for joy and came back down the drive towards John.

“Okay, John, let’s go,” he smiled, for the first time.

John was taken aback. He was about to tell everyone that he had not actually invited Sherlock back to his house, and that, as a sixteen-year-old boy, he wasn’t exactly happy about having to look after a seven year old. But then he looked down at Sherlock’s happy little face and changed his mind. They began walking back, past the playground, and reached John’s house about fifteen minutes later.

His house was small. He lived in it with his mum and sister, and it definitely wasn’t a mansion like Sherlock’s. In fact, he doubted anyone else was in. Harry would be out drinking and clubbing with her friends and his mum would definitely be working, so he opened the door and didn’t even bother calling up the stairs to see if anyone else was in.

“Don’t you have a cleaner?” Sherlock asked, looking around their messy living area. Slightly irritated, John shook his head and didn’t say anything. Sherlock regarded him carefully but didn’t say anything else, so John moved through to their tiny kitchen and wrinkled his nose at the burnt pasta that sat on the hob.

Twenty minutes later, he was stirring a new pot of spaghetti while Sherlock went on about the differences between the sand in the playground and the sand on the beach he’d visited a few days earlier, and found that he was actually, oddly, enjoying himself. The door opened, and his mother entered, looking tired from the long day-shift she worked as a nurse.

“Is Harry arou-” she started to say, before seeing the scene before her. Her eyebrows raised slightly but, to her credit, she didn’t say anything about John cooking pasta for a seven-year old. Not that it was the oddest thing he’d ever brought home. That giant Sumatran rat had certainly been something different.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what it is, but for some reason I'm unable to write anything longer than about 1500 words? I get to 1000 and suddenly I can't be bothered any more. So sorry for the slightly abrupt ending :P use your imagination to fill in what happens next!
> 
> Please comment and leave kudos! I always appreciate it! :)


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